The White Rose
by ohponthavemercy
Summary: For the prompt "where's the love song to set us free? too many people down, trying to turn the wrong way around". E/É oneshot


Note: Everything historically related is true. The White Rose Movement was an intellectual resistance group at the University of Munich in Nazi Germany consisting of students and their philosophy professor. They did anonymous pamphlets and graffiti. In February 1943, the six most recognized members were arrested by the Gestapo and beheaded. However, there was clearly not something similar in Vichy France, that's just my artistic license. Hope you like, Anon.

The year is 1942. Henri Phillippe Pétain, hero of Verdun, is ruling the equivalent of a Nazi puppet state in his Vichy France, and General Charles de Gaulle has fled to London, where a French government-in-exile lives. German soldiers prowl the north of France, while Pétain embraces authoritarianism with open arms.

Yet, in the June heat, the streets tremble with rebellion.

Strangely enough, it was her roommate Cosette who told her of the secret meetings organized by one Professor Lamarque, inspired by the White Rose movement of the University of Munich.

"They type out pamphlets and things, I think," she whispers furtively, her lips almost skimming Eponine's ear as she tugs her along towards the hall where they meet. "Marius goes there."

_Of course it has something to do with Marius_, Eponine thinks, rolling her eyes as they climb the stairs up to the room. Already she can hear the hum of voices. But, if she's being honest, she misses freedom. She misses being able to run around Paris, she misses not having the government's eye always on her, suspicious of her dark hair and olive skin. So perhaps this little trip is worthwhile.

The steps creak, and the hum of voices abruptly pause as Cosette opens the door.

Eyes dart curiously over at them as papers shuffle and people cough quietly, nervously. _Why, they're only boys_, _for the most part_, she thinks amusedly, her gaze sliding over heads of curly hair and loosened ties, shadows and bags under their eyes but the unmistakable vitality of youth in their movements.

A golden-haired youth steps out with a polite but hesitant smile. "Excuse me, mademoiselles, but are you ladies lost?" The way most of them casually dismiss any idea of these girls participating irks her.

"We heard there was a rebellion going on," Eponine says coolly. "So where do we sign up?"

Most of the time she watches from her usual spot in the corner, listening to quiet-but-passionate speeches of how Pétain stole any hint of democracy from the Third Republic, how the racism is as blatant here as it is in Nazi Germany, how their men have gone off to war and their women to work in their place, how the citizens have given up their rights in exchange for what? Territorial integrity of a nation crawling with soldiers, like an infestation of ants?

The boy with the glasses and the kind face always types furiously on an old typewriter someone's hauled up to the room, scrunching his nose as he tries to keep up with the gray-haired-but-still-fierce Professor Lamarque's words. Sometimes the middle-aged professor doesn't come, but the blond one with the challenging eyes from earlier – his devoted protégé, Eponine thinks – takes his place, fervently gesticulating.

"Why are you here?" One of them asks her one day, coming to sit by her.

She has to think for a moment. "Because fuck Hitler," she shrugs simply, completely and apologetically unladylike.

He laughs, tossing back the inky mop of curls that constantly falls over his forehead. "Well said. His stupid soldiers took all of the good liquor."

"Please," The boy with the glasses snorts, looking up from his typing. "That was the only good deed Hitler ever did."

The hall vibrates with their laughter, and even the serious blond one pauses to smile, and just like that, it's like she's always been there.

"Grantaire," the mildly offended apparent wine aficionado holds out his hand.

"Eponine," she says, and takes it.

Grantaire whispers the rest of the boys' names into her ear after that. Combeferre, the gentle typist with a love for moths. Courfeyrac, the notorious flirt. Feuilly, the hardworking artist forced to paint metal airplanes now. Bahorel, the fighter. Joly, the optimistic doctor ("It's a good thing to be an optimist, in his line of work, eh?"). Jean Prouvaire, the poet-turned-journalist. Bossuet, the extremely unlucky workman. His introductions are brief but sardonic, often peppered with anecdotes that buzz like secrets in her ear, a little unreal. She giggles, and the noise startles her – it's been a while since she laughed.

"Would you two quit fooling around over there? Some of us are trying to actually get work done," the golden boy snaps.

"That's Enjolras, the marble man," Grantaire murmurs. "Wet blanket, if you can't tell."

She snorts, but quickly hides her smile when Enjolras frowns. "What exactly are you trying to do here?" she asks, leaning back against the wall and crossing her ankles.

Combeferre speaks up, adjusting his glasses. "We're trying to find a way to safely get the pamphlet to the printing press where Jehan's paper is published, and then distribute it. It's getting harder and harder for us to do it – the police are already watching Lamarque." It suddenly strikes her that she hasn't seen the gruffly warm professor in a week.

"So we would really appreciate it if the two of you could be quiet until we can find a solution," Enjolras growls, his brows furrowed and his hands folded behind his back as he paces, a tall blur of motion along the side of the room.

She's not quite sure why she suggests it – possibly just to wipe that "you two are utterly useless" look off on his face. "I'll take it."

They freeze. "Excuse me?" Enjolras splutters. Cosette looks up from flirting with Marius and glances over, wearily questioning.

Eponine shrugs casually. "I could put a false bottom in my grocery basket and just take the pamphlets in there."

"Absolutely not," Enjolras says at the same time Combeferre says, "It could work."

"It's too dangerous," Enjolras points out after a brief war of glances with his friend.

She rolls her eyes. "One could argue sitting here is just as dangerous as walking about out there."

Grantaire nods. "She's got a point."

Surrounded by the noises of approval from his friends, Enjolras is forced to allow her to go. "Oh, _alright_."

The next day she brings in her basket and watches as Feuilly neatly cuts a piece of cardboard as a false bottom while Combeferre tucks the paper in like a mother bundling up her child. Enjolras, on the other hand, is ranting beside her about caution and looking relaxed and normal, like anybody else going to buy groceries.

"Worried about me?" She asks, because she's never had Cosette's graceful bashfulness about anything.

He frowns. "No. Of course not. I'm worried about the pamphlets."

She just smiles.

Whatever he may say, he's waiting for her when she gets back, even though by now the sun is setting and the room is empty save for him.

When she comes traipsing up the steps, he rushes over, grabbing her shoulders. "Did you get stopped by anyone?"

She laughs. "Of course not. It was fine, everything went just fine. Your precious pamphlet is safe and sound and currently being copied."

His hands drop from her shoulders awkwardly. "Good." He coughs. "Um, well, thank you."

"You're welcome," she nods. But he's not quite done yet.

"To be honest, I didn't know whether or not you'd be a help at all, when you first came in," Enjolras admits. "In fact, I thought you'd be a distraction."

She smirks. "I don't know, I may prove to be." He gives her a half-smile before turning serious again.

"Forgive me?"

She tilts her head in mock-consideration. "If you take me out to a movie, I might."

This time, it is a real smile stretching broadly across his face. "Alright," he agrees. "Alright."

It would be nice to say that a romance was immediately kindled that night.

The atmosphere in the room was much easier, afterwards, yes. He was more open to her participation in the group (but he still fussed and hovered every time she went out with a new stack of pamphlets). She stopped giggling so much with Grantaire in the corner and started watching him talk as their numbers swelled, listening to the continuous rise and fall of his voice as his eyes flashed in the dimness of the room. His smiles came easier, and they were soon directed at her more often than not.

But there was a war going on. And war has a habit of changing things, quickly.

It is Joly, always-happy Joly, who comes running in with the news. He is panting as he bursts through the door, chest heaving and his knuckles turning as white as his face as he clutches a chair.

"What's wrong?" everyone choruses, alarmed.

"They've – they've taken Professor Lamarque," Joly stutters. "We're done for. They're coming for us soon."

The room goes stock-still for a moment before it erupts into total chaos.

"We have to go, we have to run!"

"To where?"

"Anywhere, we just have to leave, _now_!"

"We'll meet at nine at the Rue St. Denis –"

Like a startled flock of birds, they scatter, bolting from the room, papers fluttering in the breeze like feathers.

"You girls should go home," Enjolras commands them, but he's staring at her. "Lay low for a while – they probably don't know about you yet."

"Stay safe," Cosette tells the dispersing band of boys – their boys, their student rebels. But they're already gone.

The night air bites at any exposed skin as she huddles in the yellowish pool of light cast off by a street lamp. Eponine pulls her coat tighter around her.

"You shouldn't be here," his voice rumbles, fondly exasperated, out of the darkness. The light washes out his complexion, making him look like the boy he is, not the stern, serious man who leads a secret intellectual resistance movement. _So young_, she thinks. She almost wants to brush back a lock of hair from his face, tell him everything's alright. _But that's a lie, isn't it?_

"Yes, well, it's a bit too late to be telling me what I shouldn't be doing," she teases, because she's always teasing, because laughter keeps the tears at bay.

She can feel his sad chuckle bouncing off her bones, vibrating in her chest. "We did everything all wrong," he murmurs. "We did all the things we shouldn't have and never did the any of things we should."

Eponine opens her mouth to object to this, but he suddenly winds his fingers in her hair and pulls her towards him, pressing his lips to hers demandingly, fiercely, as if angry at all things they will never get to do, not now.

When they break apart, he tips his forehead to rest against hers, his breath skating across her eyelids. "In another life -" he sighs, and she can't decide whether or not it's an apology or a promise.

"Make the most out of this one first," she insists. "Go. Run."

He brushes his lips against her forehead, whisper-soft, before he whirls around, running through the streets with a suitcase banging against his side.

She watches him go until the sound of his footsteps fade completely away, eaten up by shadow and fog.

In the middle of the night she wakes up with a gasp, shuddering in her bed.

Cosette rolls over sleepily in hers, shifting in her blankets. "What's wrong?"

"I swear I heard a gunshot."

Two months later there's a knock on their door.

It's Marius, his arm in a sling under a bedraggled fur coat.

"Where are the others?" Cosette asks in a shaky exhale after tight embraces that force Eponine to look away for a moment.

Marius looks at his feet. "I'm the only one. They're all gone." He turns to Eponine, apologetic and pitying. "Enjolras never made it out of the city. He was killed that night, when we all ran. I'm sorry."

"I know," she says, blinking rapidly. "I know."


End file.
